


The Dust Of Ages

by Kemmasandi



Series: Book of Hours [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alien Legal System, Gen, Hinted Relationships, Post-War, War Crimes Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 01:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3191081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cybertron was not the only planet destroyed in the Great War, nor were Cybertronians the only species to be devastated by its excesses. Summoned by the Intergalactic Council to stand trial for war crimes, Optimus Prime must now answer for the Cybertronian civil war, and his part in it, to the galactic community.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dust Of Ages

**Author's Note:**

>   
> **Book of Hours**  
>  Prologue

...

_when the Emperor went to Canossa, barefoot in penance_

...

THE DUST OF AGES

Optimus watched the sun rise over the curve of the horizon from high orbit.

He had seen many dawns from the edge of space, both over this planet and others. This one was different. It could very well be his last.

Bright shafts of sunlight pierced through the cabin viewport, casting his shadowed silhouette on the far wall. In the distance, emerging from behind the brightening bulk of Cybertron, peeked the second of the moons. Duomene glowed dusky orange in the dawn, and he hoped that it was not an omen of things to come.

His EM field flared out, exploring the suite. It was richly, if minimalistically, decorated, no doubt according to the latest fashions from the Galactic Hub. The walls were bare steel, but lined with decorative pillars and simple, tasteful artworks; the floor in the large berthroom was carpeted with some fluffy organic material. Beneath his feet, the steady throb of interstellar engines pulsed through the superstructure of the ship.

He'd been left alone, with assurances that the mecha he'd been allowed to bring along with him would be provided for.

Then they'd locked him in.

The _Benign Intervention_ was not a prison ship. Even so, it had a few cells on board. Optimus was not about to mistake the fact that the Great Council Representatives escorting him from Cybertron had given him a guest suite instead, as an indication of good will. The Great War, such as the histories were beginning to call it, had touched far too many of their planets for that.

More likely, his position as a reigning sovereign had stayed their hands. He hadn't been convicted yet, after all.

The light of the rising sun quickly became blinding. He put a servo to his face, shielding his optics, but did not turn away.

The war was over. Megatron was dead, his lieutenants scattered. Though the planet was battered and scarred, it had survived – he could see the brilliant glow of renascent cities dotted across the dark side of the planet, flaring proudly one by one before being swallowed up by the onrushing border of dawn. Cybertronians – Autobots, Decepticons, and those whom had chosen neutrality – were returning home, fueling the reconstruction effort with willing hands and frames.

Cybertron was at peace. He told himself that this was all that mattered.

The thrum of the engines changed. The pitch deepened, the throb quickening. Millenia spent in space told him that the ship, having escaped the planetary gravitational well, was preparing to make the jump into deep space.

He touched the viewport, resting his fingertips against the glass as if he could feel through it the heat of the sun. His spark ached, a pain nearly physical in its intensity.

The so-called Cybertronian Civil War had been neither civil, nor entirely Cybertronian. This Optimus had known, on an intellectual level beyond true comprehension. Cybertronian imperialism during the Golden Age had wrought a galactic superpower, and when that superpower had collapsed, it had not only brought those clinging to its fringes tumbling down with it, but had spread a virulent force throughout the stellar neighbourhood with its dying throes. The Decepticons had proven the inheritors of the imperial dream, and like the Empire before them, they had stolen the very land out from beneath many, many civilised species.

Small wonder that when the Council came looking for responsibility, they had been unwilling to accept merely the end of the war and Megatron's death as answer.

Below him, Cybertron turned into a new day. The edge of the Sea of Rust glimmered, its characteristic orange colour firelike under the sunlight.

Yesterday, the ship had landed on the wide forecourt of the Kimian Central Plaza. Yesterday, he'd spoken as the leader of what remained of the Cybertronian Empire to the Representatives, negotiating their cause. Yesterday, they had conveyed the news to him that he, as the remaining instigator of the conflict, was to be charged by the Great Council of Galactic States with what they'd termed 'crimes against the common order' – Optimus recognised them as war crimes – and had been summoned to answer to the Great Council's Intergalactic Belligerency Tribunal.

Although he had been expecting some form of indemnification, it had still come as a nasty surprise.

Since the war had ended, Cybertron's miraculous revival had kept Optimus too busy to think of much else. Organising reconstruction, overseeing the writing of the landmark peace treaty between Autobots and Decepticons, and tracing the scattered remnants of those whom had fled as Neutrals at the beginning of the war had occupied his every spare moment. In the dark hours before dawn he still woke in fear of their small and fragile peace being snatched away before it had had a chance to take hold of them. Unlearning the habits and fears of war was going to take them a very long time.

So it was with a deep shock of fear and trepidation that Optimus had acceded to the Council's demands. There was no other option. Cybertron could not fight another war. He could not let them try.

Elita One had volunteered to come with him. So had Ultra Magnus, and many others of his provisional government. Even as the _Benign Intervention_ drew further away from Cybertron, this brought him a little solace.

He had had to refuse Elita – she was too necessary to the reconstruction, too high up within the government. He'd used the same excuse on Starscream, another volunteer – Primus alone knew why he had put himself forward; the opportunity to gloat over Optimus' fast-approaching fate, perhaps? It was often hard to tell the Seeker's true motive. Starscream had nevertheless sent one of his trine along; Thundercracker, the level processor of the three.

Also in his small party were Metalhawk, a Neutral who had been one of the first to arrive on a revitalised Cybertron; and Smokescreen, who, loyal to the end, had simply refused to remain behind.

The Matrix, bracketed around his spark chamber deep in his chest, had never felt heavier.

He watched Cybertron until the ship turned and it passed from view behind the low-down bulge of the _Benign Intervention_ 's engine block. Then he stepped back from the viewport and strode into the semi-enclosed berthroom.

It was decorated as if for lovers, with finishings in the reds and purples favoured by many organic species. Optimus drew in a sobered vent.

Loneliness struck, hard.

At the very least, the berth was one of Cybertronian fashion. He sat upon the edge and inspected the bedside unit, opening each drawer to find emptiness within. There was a book – hardcopy, and far too small for his hands – lying at the back of a shelf, behind several small organic organisms that grew inside spherical glass receptacles. Small fine leaves pressed at the curve of their prisons.

Optimus gazed at them for a long while, commiserating.

He missed the sun already. He missed Cybertron, its cracked streets and gleaming new buildings, the hollow stumps of old ruins that loomed out from between inhabited pockets of rebuilt city. His core ached with the force of his longing. His spark tried to reach for home, but found only the void of space.

Optimus sighed through his vents. He dipped the berthroom lights, laid himself on the berth, and attempted to recharge.

* * *

There was little to break the monotony of the journey. It was short by galactic standards; the fleeting organic natures of the species whom had designed the _Benign Intervention_ demanded speed and efficiency of their transport. But Optimus' internal chronometer measured three full orns by the time the ship descended shaking and shuddering into the gravity well of the Great Council's home planet.

After Earth, the Hub was achingly familiar. Trees lined the cityscape, blue-green leaves fluttering in a gentle breeze. Small avian creatures flitted about the wide eaves of the long, low buildings, oblivious to the close-by noise of the spaceport. The sky was blue, of a warmer tone than that which arched over the Nevadan desert; Optimus registered a marginally higher percentage of argon and methane than that in Earth's troposphere. The air as he stepped out of the _Benign Intervention_ was warm and humid.

On the tarmac below him was a delegation of yet more Council Representatives. He counted sixteen aliens, of various species, dressed in the draping white fabrics of the highest possible rank. Around them, many more assistants and companions of lower status.

The politicians were flanked by a platoon of the Council's police force, the Galactic Conciliary Peacekeepers. They carried high-heat armor-piercing rounds and wore thicker body armour than would normally be expected on an escort.

The platoon surrounded Optimus and his entourage, quiet professionalism in their movements. He reminded himself once more that he had not yet been convicted, and that the well-armed soldiers were present as much for his own protection as anyone else's.

A line of towering thunderclouds marched along the horizon, lightning flickering within their anvil-shaped heads. Distant thunder rumbled.

He glanced at Ultra Magnus as the Representatives came forward. Magnus' lips were thinned, his EM field rigid and constrained.

“I do not like this,” he murmured. “Look at them. They have already made up their minds.”

“Perhaps,” said Optimus. “I have no other option.”

“I know. I simply...” Magnus trailed off, shaking his helm. “This is not dealing justice. It is merely allaying blame.”

“That is what these things tend to do,” said Thundercracker. The Seeker's wings were flared wide, a display of discomfort as plain as daylight. “Why else do you think they've brought you here? It's revenge, pure and simple.” His EM field vibrated with fearful disgust. “Slagging dirtlickers.”

His Decepticon brands had been ground away and the wounds repainted with his favored bright blue, but his optics still wore red filters. Optimus doubted that they were the only Decepticon identification which he had chosen to keep.

“They have a right to demand recompense,” said Optimus, as the escort parted in front of them and a pair of Representatives stepped forward into the gap. “I will do my best to ensure that it does not turn into mindless revenge.”

The Representatives – an Acruxi and a Phrygian, one almost Cybertronian in frame design and the other decidedly not – stepped forward. The Phrygian bowed, while the Acruxi fluttered xir mandibles at him, xir heavy exoskeletal structure not allowing for same gesture of respect.

“We the Council welcome you and your companions to the Hub, Lord Prime,” said the Acruxi Representative. Xe used Lingua Perpetua, the Galactic Council's trade language. Optimus engaged his translation protocols and listened carefully; he hadn't had a chance to speak the language in a very long time.

“Now that the war is over, we must shift our focus with all haste to the rebuilding of the homes and lives of our constituents,” the Representative continued. “In doing so, we must ensure that the future will be safe for those who may choose to return home, and that there is no reasonable doubt of a resurgence of the violence which has torn so many of ours from us before their God-ordained times. On behalf of the Galactic Council, I offer my hope and trust that in this trial we may come to conclusions which benefit us all.”

Optimus knelt to give his formal reply. “I pray that this is so, and offer you my full cooperation in the seeking of such conclusions.”

The Phrygian bowed again. “Our thanks, Lord Prime.”

:: _A lot of bowing and scraping for someone whose friends just ordered us here_ :: Smokescreen commented on a private line. :: _You're going to play along?_ ::

:: _They will pretend that they asked my cooperation, thus avoiding the appearance of tyranny over an independent sovereign. Although Cybertronians have few allies among the galactic community, there are other sovereign states_ _signatory to but legislatively_ _independent of the Council whose leaders would take a dim view of our mistreatment simply because it would stand to reason that a Council willing to mistreat one independent sovereign,_ _however misbehaving,_ _could well do the same to all. It is thus in the Council's best interests to make these proceedings as transparent as possible._ ::

:: _Oh._ :: Smokescreen's EM field flickered, amused. :: _Well. Then everything should end up okay, shouldn't it?_ ::

Optimus flicked a sharp negative through the channel. :: _The charges include eighteen counts of genocide. If I am found guilty of even one, I could be executed, and no power in this ga_ _l_ _axy would contest it._ ::

Smokescreen's comm signal cut off. Optimus glanced at the young Elite Guard from the corners of his optics, taking in the rigid stance, the clear fury and even clearer fear wending through his EM field that pressed tight against his plating.

The Representatives rejoined their fellows. A six-limbed doglike alien dressed in the blue and white of the Council services staff took their place.

“Good afternoon, honoured guests. My name is Kaankit,” she said, folding her first pair of limbs in front of her chest. “I will be your house services chief while you are resident within the Council district. I am charged with fulfilling your requests and organising all excursions you might undertake during that time. Now I am to take you to your assigned residence, where you will meet with your Council-appointed legal team.”

“My thanks, Assistant Kaankit,” said Optimus. “Will these soldiers be accompanying us?”

Kaankit's orange eyes glanced at the Peacekeepers. “This is Delta Platoon, led by Captain Ruh Maskagee. They will remain with us as far as the residence, when the platoon assigned to your security will take over.”

“I see,” said Optimus. He found the captain, a large bipedal alien of a species he did not recognise, and nodded. “My thanks, Captain.”

“The residence is not far. I can answer your questions, should you have any, en route.” Kaankit turned, trotting away on four limbs. “Please, follow me.”

:: _That is a taeir_ :: Metalhawk commed Optimus as they followed. :: _They come from the inner Orion Arm, too distant for the war to have reached. You may have supporters within the Council._ ::

:: _Do you believe so?_ :: Optimus asked.

The Neutral's turbines spun, producing a noncommittal humming noise. :: _They are influential among the the outer worlds. That one has been assigned to our cause could be a good sign._ ::

Optimus considered the taeir's retreating back. :: _We shall see_. ::

Kaankit led them into the spaceport, where a clear path had been roped off for their use. The boarding lanes in the atrium were deserted, save for a handful of aliens of several different species, who approached with small datapads in their hands when they spotted the Cybertronians.

“Ignore them,” said Kaankit, as they began to shout for attention. “The Council will release an official announcement of your arrival within a few hours.”

Not all of the aliens were reporters. Two hulking Archonese began to hurl abuse at them, words whose meanings Optimus did not know but whose tone was all too easy to decipher.

Archon had been one of the systems worst-hit by the Decepticons. The dominant species were large and tough, and where the Decepticon war machine had elsewhere simply exterminated any inhabitants in the process of terraforming the planets for their own use, the Archonese they had kept for slaves.

There was a certain sort of irony in that, Optimus observed in thoughts as cold as ice.

The smaller Archonese had swollen white scars around his neck and wrists, wounds characteristic of the radioactive collars the Decepticons had used to keep their captives under control.

They passed through the deserted Customs hall and out into the warm Hub sunlight. The advancing line of thunderstorms had come closer as they spoke; Optimus could feel the distant subsonic rumble of thunder rolling through the ground and up through his struts.

Smokescreen broke the silence with a sudden question. “What's the rain like here?”

Kaankit glanced over her shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“Is it safe to go out in it?” Smokescreen stretched his arms out leisurely in front of his chest. “How about comfortable?”

Kaankit gave the thunderheads an appraising look. “I wouldn't try it today. High-altitude hail can be large and painful.”

“Ah, man.” Smokescreen whuffed through his lateral vents, a put-upon sigh. Optimus observed the remaining tension in his shoulders and concluded that the relaxed mannerisms were a show for everyone else's benefit. “I was hoping to get some driving in.”

The taeir's whiplike tail snaked from side to side. “If the storms pass by this evening, you may still do so. The Peacekeepers will need to accompany you, however.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Smokescreen. “I figured.”

The residence Kaankit had spoken of was not far from the spaceport. They walked rather than drove; both Metalhawk and Thundercracker had flighted altmodes and it would do a disservice to them as well as to the aliens to transform.

It was far larger than Optimus had expected, a sprawling mansion built to the largest galactic standard. A pair of large stone pillars marked the beginning of a long pathway leading into a wide forecourt before the house's central porch and open door. The architecture was fundamentally alien, a curved roof of many layers climbing in tiled levels up to a three-storeyed peak at the southern end of the main house. The outer walls were clad in beaten earth, or some such material that dampened Optimus' scanning mechanisms as he investigated the internal structure. Plants with large fanned leaves grew beneath the wide eaves, a carpet of dark green mossy growth lining the edges of the path.

Kaankit trotted across the forecourt and leapt up the series of tiled steps to the entranceway. She spoke to someone inside for a moment, then turned to Optimus.

“Your defense advocates will arrive in approximately twenty minutes. I will escort them to the south sitting room – on the shady side of the courtyard, down the hallway from the amenities room. In the meantime, I suggest that you and your companions get settled in. If you have any questions or requests, please do ask me.”

“My thanks,” said Optimus, and entered the house.

He counted twelve sets of rooms – more than enough for the five of them. Optimus chose a second-floor suite overlooking the central courtyard and its gardens, with a single berth – again of the Cybertronian style – and a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that the guard outside his door assured him would catch the morning sun. This time, there were datapads and books aplenty, arranged in a shelf within arm's reach of the berth.

He explored the local electronics, looking for a wireless datanet connection. His router blinked on a faint signal, then slid off. There was an inbuilt data point behind the large steel workdesk opposite the berth; the plug was capped off.

Optimus spun his vents in resignation.

He spent the remaining ten minutes browsing the bookshelf instead. The collection was respectable, if dry in topics. The Hubworld residents had a reputation for being well-read.

Soon he heard Ultra Magnus' voice crackling in his comms. “ _Sir, the defense advocates have arrived.”_

“Thank you,” replied Optimus. He shut down the current book, a rather interesting text describing the native flora of the Hub, and left it on his berthside table for later.

Inside the south sitting room he found Ultra Magnus, Metalhawk and Thundercracker, arranged around a large wooden table with Kaankit and four strangers. Smokescreen ducked inside a moment later. The largest of the newcomers, a brown-skinned being with rough skin like tree bark, shut and locked the door after him.

Kaankit leapt up onto the table, putting herself at a less awkward level from which to address the much taller inhabitants of the room. She dipped her head to Optimus first, then to the five legal advocates.

“Good afternoon,” she began. “Lord Prime, these are the defense advocates and assistance who will be representing you in the trial. All five are volunteers.”

A second taeir appeared beside her. This one was white and blue-eyed, her mane grey where Kaankit's was dark yellow, and her shawl tied around her upper pair of arms. She too was very small, and her electromagnetic field was subtle and unaugmented with wet-wired implants. Optimus had overlooked her in his initial scan of the room.

“My name is Arlalel,” she said in faintly nasal Lingua Perpetua. “I will be your appointed case manager. My colleagues are Rusalkh al'Aqabra of Rigel V, Nan Prištin of Lohearn, Mamaku of Sassane, and Rivan ou Anase of BecruxIII. ”

She gestured to each of the lawyers in turn. Nan Prištin, a tall, ephemeral being with a face rather like a Cybertronian's,smiled as she was introduced; Rusalkh, a cybernetic organic of some grade, flared a weak EM field in what Optimus nevertheless recognised as a greeting. Rivan ou Anase, something like the Acruxi Representative, blinked a secondary pair of eyelids over faceted yellow eyes.

Mamaku of Sassane seemed nervous, writing in his hardcopy notebook rather than make eye contact. He was the largest of the five, built on a scale close to Cybertronian, but he held himself as if he wished to go unnoticed by everyone else in the room. Optimus obliged him, turning his attention back to the others.

“Welcome,” he said, taking his cues from Kaankit. “I thank you all for your assistance.”

He commed Magnus on a private line. :: _Can you vouch for any of these people?_ ::

Magnus had once been a bodyguard. He had taken up a position at Optimus' back, between him and the large windows which lined the side of the room.

:: _Arlalel had recently joined the office of the Tyrest Accord when I left for Earth._ _She has a history in non-profit aid organisations, and I believe has seen the damage of the war first-hand. Rivan ou Anase I do not know personally, but his name seems to suggest that he comes from the Becruxi Anase family – hereditary lawyers._ ::

:: _Nan_ _Pri_ _š_ _tin?_ _A_ _nd the_ _others, Rusalkh and Mamaku_ _?_ :: Optimus continued.

:: _Nan Pri_ _š_ _tin may be a recent employment; she seems young for a Lohearni. Rusalkh... I have never met a citizen of the Rigel systems; I could not begin to guess._ ::

The individual in question lifted his helm and looked at Optimus through dark optics like the lens of a camera. His EM field tucked close to his frame, too weak to extend much further.

:: _Mamaku must be a survivor of Sassane._ :: Ultra Magnus paused at this, giving Optimus the time to recall the horrendous battle which had cost him nearly a third of his forces in the explosive detonation of a red giant star. :: _I do not understand why such a person would volunteer to defend anyone connected with Cybertronians. It perplexes me._ ::

:: _And I likewise_ :: said Optimus. He watched the Sassanid make a note in his datapad, and his spark ached in sympathy. Unlike Cybertron, Sassane could never be rebuilt.

Arlalel had paused to open a briefcase beside her on the table. She drew out a sheaf of hardcopies which were perhaps a standard size above those she were used to, beckoned to Nan, who passed her a clipboard, and clipped the hardcopies onto the board.

“I am also the appointed case manager for this trial. Ordinarily a war crimes trial is conducted with one or two defense advocates, one primary and one support; however in this case the length and breadth of the context and the sheer number of the charges brought against you have mandated that there be five of us. Only myself and Rusalkh will defend you in court sittings, as we are certified to appear before the Intergalactic Belligerency Tribunal. Assistant Kaankit mentioned that we are all volunteers – I am ordinarily a senior associate with the Hubworld Defense Circuit, with a twelve-level Mastery in international criminal law from the University of the Alliance. In the past I have worked for the Council's office of the Tyrest Accord—” she gave Magnus a quick nod— “and as an advocate for NGOs in the former Cybertronian protectorates. I have personal experience with the course of your long war.”

She turned to Rusalkh, who stepped up to the table. He was around elbow-height next to Optimus, and rather spindly in frame. “I am Rusalkh al'Aqabra,” he said, his voice low and musical. “Likewise I am a volunteer. My qualifications are a ten-level Mastery in the law of armed combat from the Royal University of Hives on Rigel I, and a commendation in international law practice from the Nova Quintessa College of Saints, an irony in itself.” He paused for an astrosec, refocusing his optical lenses. “I own a private law practice here on the Hubworld, and have both defended and prosecuted Cybertronian elements ffrom charges ranging from trespass and plunder of private or beholden property, to crimes of aggression against civilian populations.”

Optimus gave him a nod of recognition.

The other three introduced themselves. Magnus had been right; Nan Prištin was young, a twelve-level Mastery student practicing ten-level law for the Galactic Conciliary Peacekeepers. Rivan had his ten-level Mastery in procedural law, and was a named partner in a Becrux law firm. Mamaku had a ten-level Mastery in international criminal law with commendations from a number of organisations.

Optimus greeted them all in turn, and turned back to Arlalel. “What can you tell me about the procedure?” he asked.

In part the question was a distraction, although his own lack of knowledge had been gnawing at his thoughts since the _Benign Intervention_ had left Cybertron. He felt exposed, far out of his depth. He could hardly hope to defend himself on such little information.

Arlalel sat, her hindquarters bunching up beneath her shawl. “Tomorrow we go to the Pre-Trial Chamber in which we expect to settle a date for the full court and hear the Prosecution's case portfolio – the final charge document, the points of evidence which they wish to argue upon, the level of proceeding requested. Regarding the last, the trial will be conducted under level seven: the trial of an independent sovereign for crimes of the highest magnitude.The initial hearing is scheduled for midday; we shouldn't expect to be in there past an hour. The charge document will be approved – or not, although that's unlikely – by the Pre-Trial Justices, we will state our intent to contest your innocence. Then the Justices will set the parameters for the admission of evidence, after which we will be dismissed, and can begin to organise our case for your defense.”

:: _Sensible_ :: Ultra Magnus commented over the private line.

“I see,” said Optimus. “Have we been given a copy of the charging document?”

“We have,” put in Rivan. “But the prosecution has until the initial hearing to add more, at which point we will be given the final list of charges.”

“Oh, great,” said Smokescreen. “There's a list?”

There was indeed a list. Arlalel read it aloud. It took her six minutes.

Optimus gazed flatly at the table as her voice continued on and on. The toll of the entire war, condensed down into six minutes. He tamped down the urge to wail his grief to the room.

How had it come to this? Even having lived it, he could barely comprehend the enormity of the war that had swallowed him and all Cybertron. How had it happened? All he had ever wanted to do was to give his fellow mecha a chance at a better life, and yet...

Linguistic expression protocols suggested a proverb, alien, human: the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Arlalel finished, her doglike face grim. “This is the largest and most extensive trial the Tribunal has ever faced. One way or another, legal precedent will be set. You need to be prepared for it to take a very long time.”

“I am prepared to wait,” said Optimus.

Arlalel's lips lifted from flat herbivore's teeth. “Cybertronian lifetimes, of course. Very convenient.”

“Speaking of Cybertronians,” Rusalkh started, “you should know that the current Prosecutor for the Court of Tribunal is a Justiciar from Nova Quintessa. His name is Ardat-kânar Uli, Inquirata; he belongs to the Quintus sect of the Nova Quintessa Capitol.”

Ultra Magnus frowned. “Surely that contravenes impartiality laws.”

“It would if he were filling a tribunal seat, but the prosecutor has no power to sit in judgement,” Arlalel noted. “Quintessa already sits upon the Belligerency Tribunal. Fortunately, their Representative this rotation is Ardat-ujanka Osoula, Extempaxia. You may have dodged something of a bullet there.”

“That doesn't sound any better to me,” said Smokescreen.

Rusalkh let off a series of rapid-fire clicks; a laugh, perhaps. “The Quintus sect is the most vocal of a number of Quintesson sects to claim Cybertronians as the natural enemy of Quintessons. They hold it that Cybertron is an ancestral possession of their Old Empire, and thus that you in essence commit trespass upon your own planet. Were Inquirata not barred from election to the Tribunal by the presence of his fellow Representative, he could well have made things very difficult for us.”

Metalhawk added, “And Extempaxia is known for being relatively non-xenophobic, as Quintessons go.”

“The other Tribunal members are Rigel V, Katun, Messatine and the Rusudani Empire.” Nan Prištin said. Her voice was high and piping, reminding Optimus of Miko as a teenager. She picked up a datapad and opened a text file, stylus dancing across the screen. “It is impossible to predict with any certainty how they might vote, but if it's more likely that Nova Quintessa will find you guilty, then I'd say the opposite is true of Rigel. Katun, Messatine and Rusudani are the ones you will have to convince.”

Optimus folded his arms and dug deep within himself for strength. “A day does not seem long to prepare.”

“We won't really have to do much tomorrow,” said Nan. “You don't enter a plea until we reach the Trial Court.”

“In the meantime, we do have a little paperwork to fill out.” Arlalel nodded at Mamaku and Rivan; the two junior lawyers brought out cases of hardcopy files in duplicate and triplicate. “If we could impose on your time a little more, Lord Prime?”

Optimus nodded. “That's fine. What would you have me do?”

Nan Prištin handed him a hardcopy sheet, and smiled. “Sign this.”

* * *

Optimus' internal alarms woke him early the next day. As he'd grown older, his processor had become slower and slower to come online; still half in recharge, he reached out, expecting in his daze to find the sturdy frame of his mate lying next to him.

His questing servos, however, found nothing.

His memories of the previous days resurfaced. He fought down a wave of heavy apprehension and brought his optics online.

Sunlight streamed in through the windows of his berthroom, pleasantly warm on his bare plating despite the early hour. He was alone in the berth, and the door was locked again.

Optimus rolled onto his hands and knees, gathered his strength, and pushed himself upright by stages. His tank roiled; orange _fuel depleted_ warnings blinking on his HUD as his movements scrambled their internal level gauges. He knelt on the berth, resting his hands palm-down on his thighs, and vented in short bursts until his core processor was finished archiving the night's recharge sequence.

The courtyard beneath his window was as yet in shadow. Optimus clambered off the berth and approached the window, touching his fingertips to the glass to ground himself.

Below, the central paved area was surrounded by raised beds of brightly-coloured flowering plants, at the rear of which tall branched evergreens which resembled tree ferns leant out over a trickling stream that flowed in a loop around the foundation of the house. A small bipedal creature emerged from the garden, and hopped up onto the side of one of the beds, short blunt head turning this way and that. Optimus wondered if it was a pet, or a wild creature which had found itself trapped within the compound's tall earthen walls.

His chronometer blinked the time at him from the edge of his HUD. It was out of date; the Hub's time system ran on base 32, and he hadn't had the chance yet to modify it accordingly. This meant that he wasn't quite sure when Kaankit was intending to let him out of his suite, or how long he had until then.

They had spent most of yesterday with the defense advocates. There was a great deal of paperwork to be filed prior to the trial, and it seemed that almost every sheet required his signature. Some included those of his companions. He, Metalhawk, and Magnus already had Council-issued monograms, although Optimus hadn't used his in a very long time. Smokescreen and Thundercracker had had to be issued their own.

He turned away from the windows, adjusting his optical filters for the lower light.

There was a washrack cubby tucked away in the rear of the suite. It was a little small for his frame class, but that was nothing Optimus hadn't dealt with before. The water was warm, and the solvent pre-mixed. He stood under the spray for a long while, doing nothing, as the water trickled under his plating and in through his subdural workings.

When he felt clean again, he stepped out of the shower and underneath the blast dryer. Warm air buffeted his audials. He flared his plating, inviting the air beneath it. The Hub was a humid world as it was; he did not want to appear before the Tribunal with mould growing in his armpits.

When he returned to the main suite, Kaankit was waiting for him.

“Good morning,” she said, with a professional nod. “We are to appear at the Tribunal Hall in twenty-seven minutes. Are you prepared?”

“Yes,” said Optimus, a half-truth at best. He did not think he would ever feel ready, but there was little point in admitting that.

The others were gathered in the forecourt below the main entryway of the house. Ultra Magnus and Metalhawk engaged in quiet discussion, while Thundercracker brooded and Smokescreen glared at their guards.

Ultra Magnus broke off as he and Kaankit approached, striding toward them. “Optimus. I have communications from Cybertron. The first round of regional elections have been held.”

“Good,” said Optimus. Relief lowered his shoulders. “Which candidates have progressed?”

“For Iacon, Bumblebee and Starscream,” said Ultra Magnus, with a minute twist of his field expressing displeasure at the latter. “For Polyhex, Motormaster and Broadside, and for Rodion, Nautica and Hot Spot.”

Starscream was no surprise. The former Decepticon Air Commander had inveigled himself into post-war government at every level he could manage. Nautica and Motormaster, though? Optimus had not had much time to familiarise himself with the electoral candidates of each and every recovering city, but his observers in Polyhex and Rodion had not considered either to have much chance. It seemed that the populace had had other ideas.

He nodded his approval. “Please send them my congratulations. Although, perhaps not to Starscream – I doubt that he will appreciate it.”

Magnus' mouth quirked up at the corners. “Yes, sir.”

The Tribunal Hall was a part of the Hub's central government complex, a long, white-clad building circling the base of a tower that touched the sky. This time they drove; it was too far to walk, at least within the time frame allowed them.

Thundercracker and Metalhawk dropped down out of the sky. Optimus transformed, and took his first uninterrupted visual record of the center of the Galactic Council of States

A security wall ringed the complex, outfitted with guard posts and scanners so powerful that Optimus felt the buzz of radiation washing over him. They were delayed for a few minutes while the guards objected over their inbuilt weapons systems. Optimus' had been voluntarily locked down by medics before he had left Cybertron; he couldn't have brought them online even if he'd wanted to, but apparently the security scans couldn't tell that.

Presently an alien with the triple-stars device of a commander of the Conciliary Peacekeepers appeared. She ushered them onward, across the wide plaza before the Tribunal Hall and up a set of low steps into the reception hall.

The advocates met them in a small scribe's office overlooking the main floor of a massive courtroom. Rusalkh had a new paintjob, sober grey and pale blue; Arlalel wore a decorative scarf and shawl around her upper shoulders, and rings glinted on her fingers.

The commander addressed her in softly-spoken Lingua Perpetua. “The charging address is to begin in fifty minutes. The Lord Prime will be permitted to approach the docks without an escort, but you will need to be prepared for stringent security measures. The media have been permitted to broadcast the proceedings on five networks.”

Optimus had relaxed a little at the news that he would not be led to the defendants' dock in chains. The revelation that the procedure would be filmed had his hydraulics stiffening, his plating drawing tight in disquiet. It was not entirely unexpected, but regardless a prospect that he did not relish.

The commander left. Rusalkh offered to Optimus a seat at the table, which he accepted. Ultra Magnus stood at his shoulder, a reassuring presence, and to Optimus' somewhat guilty gratification, Smokescreen took up the post on his other side.

Arlalel appeared on the tabletop, her orange eyes narrowed in what Optimus was beginning to suspect was peevishness at the inaccessibility of furniture and architecture built to accommodate much larger beings.

“I have here the finalised charge document,” she began. There was a sheaf of hardcopy in her hands; she laid it on the table, squared it off, and folded her arms against her chest. “Rusalkh was right – Inquirata has squeezed additional charges into it. At a glance, I believe that he has dug back into the history of the war before it left the Cybertronian homeworld in order to level them, and we may need to file requests for additional evidenciary sources in order to combat them, but at the same time it will make it harder for the prosecution to prove their veracity.”

She looked up at Ultra Magnus. “The office of the Tyrest Accord on Cybertron was badly damaged, was it not?”

Magnus gave a stiff nod. “Tyrest was all but wiped off the map in the battle which killed my predecessor. It is possible that parts of the records held in that office were mirrored elsewhere; in Iacon, perhaps.” His EM field, held formally against his plating, fluctuated subtly. Optimus, who had a great deal of experience in how to read Magnus' cues and tells, recognised rapid thought. “Iacon was sacked too soon afterward to check, and we lost the majority of the Hall of Records' main servers, but there were isolated nodes elsewhere in Iacon. It will not hurt to look.”

“I have my contacts here in the Hubworld office looking, although it is unlikely that we have any of your internal records,” said Arlalel. “We may not need them in any case, but the Accord is still an institute respected by the Council.”

“As we said, that your war lated so long is something the Council hasn't ever had to deal with before,” said Rusalkh. “Many species are not accustomed to lifespans a fraction of those of Cybertronians. The timeframes involved are simply not something that they can comprehend. In order to gain a context, the court is going to be hard-pressed not to find evidence, but to make sense of the sheer volume of that which is presented.”

“I cannot say I am surprised,” said Metalhawk, a dry lilt to his voice. “I experience similar difficulty on occasion myself.”

Both Thundercracker and Smokescreen lifted their helms, glancing at him with narrowed optics.

Optimus again felt a wave of exhaustion crash over him.

The Neutrals' homecoming had only added another faction to the fractured nation he had to try to hold together. Neither Autobots nor Decepticons liked the Neutrals much, thinking of them as cowards who had fled rather than fight for a better future. For their own part, the Neutrals tended to dismiss both factions as warmongering extremists whom had between them nearly destroyed the planet. Likewise they mistrusted Optimus, whom had come by his position as leader of the rebuilding Cybertronian nation by virtue of being the only remaining figurehead left in the equation.

They had made progress, in the vorns since. But still the divisions and distrust hung on, like mud in the wheel arches.

Optimus reset his vocaliser. “The guidelines for acceptable witnesses and evidence will be set down in this hearing, will they not?”

“Yes, they will,” Arlalel confirmed. “The Tribunal panel are currently deliberating. After this hearing, we have three weeks to present our sources and witnesses for inspection by the Tribunal magistrates by law, sometime after which the date for the first session of trial will be set.”

Thundercracker's EM field billowed out, barely-restrained anger. “We have to get them okayed by some bureaucrat?”

Optimus barely noticed the use of 'we'. “Is this standard court procedure?”

Rusalkh turned to the Seeker, holding his hands palm-up – _look, I bargain with no weapon_ _in my hand_ _._ “It is, particularly in cases of this level. The Belligerency Tribunal is an entirely different organ to that of any national criminal court; it has different risks and must make different evaluations based on different needs, and it _must_ have standards that are beyond reproach. If it makes you feel any better, the Office of the Prosecutor must present his sources for inspection as well. If a source is rejected, we may still use its information under certain conditions, but its use will be prefixed by an explanation that it was not approved by the Pre-Trial Justices.”

“Does that not fall under undue influence?” asked Magnus.

“No. In fact the opposite is true; if the evidence is allowed without the disclaimer, it may be disallowed as undue influence.”

“I see.”

Magnus' hand brushed against Optimus' shoulder. A heavily-encripted local transmission pinged in his recievers. :: _Optimus, sir, I will not pretend that I like this situation. The Tribunal has never been tested on this level before, and there are many who would not only enjoy your downfall but the Tribunal's as well._ _That said, its systems and practices are well-rated for transparency, even among the Council's departments._ ::

:: _I don't know what to think_ :: admitted Optimus. :: _I certainly don't dare hope, but I trust your judgement._ ::

:: _It is my honour_ :: said Magnus, switching to High Iaconian, and an archaic register of vassal to patron. :: _From now and always, I will support you._ ::

The remaining fifty minutes went quickly. All too soon the advocates were rising, ushering them down into the courtroom.

It was simply furnished, if large. The Justices' podium overlooked the witnesses' box and court archivist's station. At the front of the lower floor, the defence bench and the prosecutor's stand faced the justices. A few aliens dotted the audience's benches, with more coming through the side doors every minute. At the rear of the room, a throng of media representatives awaited; as Optimus entered the room, every single camera focused unerringly on him.

Three of the five Justices occupied the thrones at the top of the podium. The placards on the table in front of them proclaimed them to be Sura Lalage of Katun, a large, bone-armoured biped who gave off very little radiant heat in Optimus' infrared vision; Kanai ano Jael of the Rusudani Empire, a thin figure wrapped in a complicated shroud through which four hawkish yellow eyes peered; and Zorana, the representative for Rigel V and a robotic being hardly distinguishable from Rusalkh at all.

Arlalel gestured to the defendants' bench. “The Lord Prime in the front, your attendants at the rear. Do not sit until all five Justices have taken their places.”

Optimus took his place. The advocates filed in on his either side, bringing out sheaf after sheaf of hardcopy and deliberating in lowered voices.

It didn't seem like the right place to eavesdrop, but Optimus set his audial receptors to record anyway, in case they mentioned anything he ought to know.

The big doors at the rear of the chamber opened. A wash of fresh air currents came through, on the heels of a figure Optimus did not personally know, but would have recognised in a sparkbeat anywhere.

Quintessons as a whole varied hugely in frame type, from small, sexless drones and scribes which were mostly cybernetic to the much larger, armored but largely organic, consort clades. But the image of the Quintesson which had permeated the galactic consciousness, and before it the Cybertronian historical collective, was that of the Imperators which ruled their galactic empire. And the Quintesson proceeding down the central aisle of the courtroom now was the ideal of an Imperator; large, almost as large as Optimus himself, in mass if not in height, and with the full five 'faces', sensory nodules of a central cephalopodian brain. Each face had a single staring eye, double-pupiled, that faded from pale yellow to muddy purple where it met the sclera, and a small beaklike mouth. Clean metallic parts knitted smoothly with his organic flesh, long grasping tentacles tipped with six-fingered servos folded like a praying mantis in front of an armoured, segmented trunk. He wore a high collar of bright purple cloth around his thick neck, and a richly-embroidered knitted shawl around his upper body.

There was a touch to Optimus' forearm. Stifling the immediate flinch, he glanced back toward the three junior lawyers.

“That would be the Prosecutor, Inquirata,” said Nan Prištin, with a subtle nod toward the Quintesson. “He's rather impressive, isn't he.”

Impressive was not quite the word Optimus would have chosen. Quintessons figured prominently in most of Cybertron's legends of the pre-Empirical past. They had attempted to conquer the planet on three separate occasions. Each time, Cybertron had managed to fight them off. Since then, relationships between the two empires had been understandably strained.

Inquirata took the Prosecutor's stand. Several junior lawyers clustered around a table to his left.

“Two minutes left,” said Nan.

The rear doors opened once again. A tall, thin alien in a long draped headdress entered, followed by a second Quintesson.

Those among the audience whom had sat down ahead of schedule rose awkwardly to their feet as the two Justices proceeded up the aisle. They were followed by the court staff, a white-robed official with the court scribe's regalia on their arms, an orderly, and a full squad of Conciliary Peacekeepers, again in high-heat shielding and blast armour.

The two Justices took their seats. The orderly stood upon the pdium before them and rapped the butt of a long ceremonial staff against the floor. “Court to order!” he called.

The audience quieted, and sat. Optimus and his advocates remained standing, as did Inquirata and the prosecutors' assistants.

The orderly turned, gave a stiff, formal bow to the Justices. The central of the five, Sura Lalage, rose to her feet with a ponderous push.

“Court now in session, orderly dismissed,” she said. “Today we convene the Pre-Trial Court of the Galactic Council of States' Belligerency Tribunal, addressing the case of the Tribunal versus the Lord Prime of Cybertron, Optimus Prime, regarding the internal conflict of the Cybertronian civil war and that of the protectorates accorded the Cybertronian Empire.” She nodded her huge blunt head at the prosecutor. “This rotation, the court appoints Ardat-kânar Uli, Inquirata, as Prosecutor. In defence, Arlalel of Taenkalili and Rusalkh of Rigel V will argue the Lord Prime's cause. The Office of the Prosecutor opened its initial investigation into the crimes committed during the Cybertronian civil war twelve Hubworld years ago, upon the death of the rebel leader, Megatron. Under the purview of the Tyrest Accord and the Rigel III Pax Quaero Commission, this Court will now open the pre-trial hearing.”

The Justice sat down, and the bailiff took the podium. “The Court will first hear the charging address.”

On the other side of the room, Inquirata rose. When he spoke, his voice was electronically generated, emanating from the cybernetic inplants around his neck.

“The conflict which befell the Cybertronian Empire has been unmatched in all the history of the Council of Galactic States, both in length and in blood spilled. The Office of the Prosector hereby addresses crimes under all three categories of international criminal responsibility: war crimes, crimes against peace, and crimes against the common order; we also wish to address the responsibility of the genocides committed as part of that war, which was waged under Optimus Prime's authority.”

On the last sentence his voice rose to a near-shout; when he spoke Optimus' name he whirled to face him, his five faces eerily blank. He raised a hand to point to Optimus in silence.

Optimus held himself perfectly still. He recognised such dramatic tactics. Megatron had once used them, and to significantly greater effect.

Inquirata continued. “To that, the Office of the Prosecutor wishes to charge the defendant with twelve counts of genocide; that of the Mantelli people, of the Merseian, of the Kalay and Ujung of Rakhtoa, of the people of Archon, of the Paradron, the peoples of Sargasso, of Nemoidia, of Maderan, the Thermian and Thunderan people of Lithone and the Monasts of Theophany; with five counts of aggravated genocide, that of the Nebulan people, the Tsiehshi, the Vandar, the Sassane and the people of Regulus V; five counts of crimes against peace; of the conspiracy to, initiation of, and waging of war counter to the agreements set down in the Tyrest Accord, and of the initiation and waging of an interplanetary war in violation of the Rigel III Pax Quaero Commission; three violations of the Non-Contact Initiative Treaty; twenty-three counts of crimes against the common order; including fifteen of the use of weapons of mass destruction counter to the Pax Quaero Commission, the taking and trading of peoples subject to the Galactic Council of States in forced servitude, persecution of persons based on political and religious affiliations, systematic and violent violations of personal autonomy, belligerence against civilian populations, military use of immature persons, and enforced disappearance of persons; and seven counts of war crimes; categorised under use of torture, practicing of methods of terror, perfidy, forced deportation and relocation of peoples subject to the Galactic Council of States, abuse of prisoners of war, abuse of civilian internees, and forced recruitment of combatants to serve against their will.”

There was a flare of denial from the bench behind Optimus. He sent Smokescreen a warning ping, and the distraction gave him the opportunity to draw his thoughts away from the storm of guilt and grief that was building inside him. Inquirata's words had not caused it – only brought it to the surface.

He endured the Prosecution's case portfolio in a kind of haze, recording the words spoken for later, when he felt he could comprehend them beyond a vague surface understanding. There were lights in his spark: distant warnings of an approaching crash, he knew, a symptom of overload in the emotional cortex. He would sequester himself in his room when they arrived back at the house that was his jail, and ride out the physiological effects of the overload. If he got there quickly enough.

Once or twice, Magnus pinged him with explanation on a particular legal point. Nan Prištin supplied him with documents as Arlalel spoke on his behalf. As they had promised, he was not required to speak to the court.

The Prosecution requested a level seven case. Level seven was the highest the Tribunal had ever administered, if he recalled correctly. The Justices approved the request, and finally, the hearing was over.

Optimusremained seatedas the Justices departed, taking a moment longer to compose himself. The defense advocates gathered their hardcopies, speaking quietly amongst themselves. At the rear of the room, he could suddenly hear the media, conducting interviews and clamoring for a statement from the Justices.

Inquirata and the Prosecution had disappeared.

Optimus thought of the Quintesson. Association programs picked out image files and sound bytes of Megatron in response, recognising the faintest of similarities.

He shut down the programs responsible and stood, hands trembling. If only events had not progressed as they had. If only...!

The advocates led him into the scribe's chamber on the upper level rather than out through the media, for which he was grateful. He refused the offer to sit this time, standing with his back to the wall and his pedes planted firmly on the ground. When the medics had disabled his inbuilt weapons systems, they had taken his battle protocols offline as well. But Optimus had lived with them for long enough that settling into a defensive position was automatic, to the point that he had to stop himself from holding his arms in front of his body as if to fend off any attack he might see coming.

To distract himself, he watched the other occupants of the room. The advocates busied themselves with paperwork, working in silence. Smokescreen sat heavily in a chair that was about his size and stared brooding into the middle distance. Thundercracker lurked in a corner, wings held tense and upright. Metalhawk seemed the most comfortable, joining the advocates at the table and occasionally answering a question. Ultra Magnus, as before, stood by Optimus' side, a silent sentinel.

Arlalel spoke, thinking aloud. “We lack context for these early dates. There is very little on Cybertronian politics in our archives prior to the overthrow of the old High Council.”

“Which old High Council?” asked Thundercracker, before anyone else could say a word. “There were a few of those, right at the end.”

The advocate gave him a wry smile. “Which proves my point. The structure of the early war makes a great deal of difference to our defence. If I have my dates correct, the charge relating to persecution of persons based on political or religion affiliation, with events cited including the Stanix Blackball Munitions rebellion, occurred several years before Optimus took the throne as Prime.”

“We say 'ascended',” said Ultra Magnus, stepping forward, “and your dates are indeed correct.”

Arlalel gave a respectful nod and presented her sheaf of hardcopies for inspection. Comically large in her hands, Magnus' nearly swallowed them up.

“We don't have time to do a full analysis of all the factors that went into creating the war,” Mamaku cautioned. “More to the point, the Justices can't concern themselves with that either.”

Rusalkh came to stand by his shoulder. “Yes, but I think that we can ask the defendant his story, as we would in any case, and do it in three months. Perhaps one of you, as junior advocates, can take care of it.”

Optimus very much doubted that three Hubworld months would be sufficient. He watched Mamaku closely as the Sassanid considered the idea; the other two junior advocates seemed to be waiting for his cue as well.

At last, Mamaku raised his head and gazed directly at Optimus. “Lord Prime, what do you say?”

Optimus considered his thoughts. There was a glint in the Sassanid's eyes, and he was abruptly reminded of Jack Darby, back on Earth.

“I believe that there is more to be gained from the sharing of our experiences than there is to be lost. Keeping secrets has never worked out so well in my experience.”

Mamaku shifted. “Then I'm willing to try. Call it a defense statement, and we might even be able to get it into the Court.”

He approached Optimus, palmtop computer and stylus in hand. His voice lowered, no longer addressing the whole room. “People have asked me again and again why I would defend a Cybertronian when mine is one of the species on that genocide list that Inquirata so helpfully read out back there in the hearing. I am still working on an answer to that question, but I trust the Tribunal to do its job. I wasn't anywhere near Sassane when it went, and technically I'm not counted as a victim by some loophole in a law that was written before anyone had so much as imagined a war of the sort you fought, but I am affected, so perhaps I shouldn't be here. If you feel that my history renders me incapable of serving as your advocate, you have the right to request my dismissal. This you should know.”

“I do know,” said Optimus, forcing himself to relax. Mamaku stopped, still a respectful distance away. “I confess that I had wondered the same thing of you. I will not require another advocate. As long as you are qualified and the Tribunal has accepted you, then I see no reason to object.”

Immediately there was a ping in his inbox. :: _You realise that if you had objected, the_ _Tribunal_ _would have to reconvene?_ :: asked Metalhawk. :: _It would gain time to prepare. Why waste that?_ ::

:: _I realise that_ :: said Optimus. _:: But if I am not sure of anything that will happen over the next few years, I know at least that I want it to be done_ right. ::

The advocates, all five of them, were a part of that. He looked down at Mamaku and saw not just an alien victim of a war that should never have reached him, but someone who was willing to help him, who wanted those things to be done right just as much.

Nan Prištin clapped her hands. The resulting sound chimed like a bell. “Then that's sorted,” she said. “We should get to work again.”

Ultra Magnus passed the hardcopies back to Arlalel with an almost wry frown. “Indeed.” :: _Are you sure, Optimus?_ ::

:: _I am_ :: Optimus confirmed. :: _If nothing else, our experiences should be preserved that we may look back upon them and learn from our mistakes._ _Perhaps there are those within the Council too who might gain use from them._ ::

And if he thought of Inquirata as he said the words, then he told himself that it was only the rumours of the Quintessons' own empires that rose the thought.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Protihexi Records](http://protihexirecords.tumblr.com) = a tumblr blog hosting the headcanons and worldbuilding used in the _Book of Hours_ 'verse.
> 
> I had this posted before, but then I forgot about it for months. XD Over Christmas I decided to rewrite it into one big chapter, and then I changed the title, and then I changed some other stuff, so it became simpler to just repost the whole thing.
> 
> (I changed the title back. Oh well.)


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